


At Risk, I Fold

by clare328



Series: In Those Years [1]
Category: Fine Line - Harry Styles (Album), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Liam drinks to much but that's mostly in the background, M/M, Mentions of 2015 stunts, Miscommunication, Niall isn't in it much but when he is he's stressed and nailbiting, OTRA Buffalo, OTRA Seattle, Song: Fine Line (Harry Styles), Songfic, background stunts, otra brussels, use of the c word (as a term of affection)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26542480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clare328/pseuds/clare328
Summary: 2015 is a stream of hotel rooms and whisky on the rocks, tired glances and touching hands under tables. It’s the bears and the bees under a rainbow sky, and Harry and Louis have to figure out how to grow up together, instead of apart.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: In Those Years [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958818
Comments: 39
Kudos: 156
Collections: Fine Line Fic Fest





	At Risk, I Fold

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my sister/beta [Spandeedie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spandeedie)\- especially for dealing with my tendency to leave things unfinished until the last minute (and thus, any mistakes or typos are my mistakes alone). A massive amount of thanks also goes to [Lululawrence](https://lululawrence.tumblr.com/), who is the reason this fic got finished - I would not have done it without your check ins and daily encouragement Sus, so thank you. Also thank you for beta'ing the sex scene and making sure everything made sense haha. 
> 
> Finally, I want to acknowledge the encouragement and support of The Panic Room GC, who helped me iron out a bunch of ideas and put up with me flailing about canon and writing, and my Timezone Larries GC, who just gave me unconditional support and enthusiasm. 
> 
> This fic was written for the [Fine Line Fic Fest](https://finelineficfest.tumblr.com//). Make sure you check out all the other great fics in the collection which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FineLineFicFest//)!
> 
> Thanks also to the festival mods! This is my first time writing fic in years, and I have enjoyed the experience so, so much.
> 
> Author's note: this fic treats babygate as a fictional stunt with no actual baby, because even though I tried to fit this as closely to the published events of 2015 as possible, it is still my imaginary world and it was thematically more consistent with what I wanted to explore in this story. Mentions of the situation are kept to a minimum, and deliberately vague, and only then to give context to the broader events of 2015.
> 
> Links/references in the end notes!

_Put a price on emotion / I'm looking for something to buy_

_London, end of May, 8am_

They haven’t spoken in weeks. Or, they’ve spoken, but it’s been casual niceties, check-ins where they mention what they’d done that day, or planned to do. They haven’t _talked_ , not about anything that matters. It’s not intentional, Harry is pretty sure, though it doesn’t help that they’re halfway through a two month tour break where their management has tried to keep them as far away from each other as possible.

It’s not just that, though. Even when they'd been together at home, they’d gone days without speaking more than the occasional ‘tea?’ Harry hadn’t noticed, really, until a day after Lou left for the states and he realised that the house wasn’t any more silent than it usually would be. It surprised him. It’s not that they’ve ignored each other, but they speak in gestures and touches, in a dance in and out of each other’s space where the steps were long ago memorised. Harry would be ok with it, if it wasn’t for the fact that everything else that is going unsaid is so big and overwhelming that it presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth at even the thought of speaking.

Louis is in L.A, ostensibly to finish writing and prep for recording the album, and to work with a new artist— Lunch Money Lewis— who he is so excited about he rarely talks about anything else. The execs at Sony have made it clear they want him to take advantage of his new ‘single lad’ persona, though, and Harry knows that’s the real reason they sent him, letting Louis have his side projects as a bribe in order to keep him on the other side of the ocean from Harry. Harry feels left behind in London. He has his own songs to finish, his own projects to work on, but he knows they probably could have been done anywhere. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, this distance between them. He feels homesick in his own bed.

He spends nights staring at pictures of Louis on his phone. He doesn’t dare keep any digital pictures of them together on iCloud, not after the mass leak last year, so he finds himself searching ‘Larry Stylinson’ pictures on his browser, obsessed with the way they’ve been caught looking at each other, breath still taken away by how obvious he is, how his love is written all over his face. More than that, he becomes obsessed with images of Louis looking at him, as if he had hung the stars. Despite the fact that he lives it— that he knows it’s real— he finds himself looking for the same cues the fans detect, some kind of assurance that their life isn’t a fever dream; that it’s something tangible.

He is frustrated with himself for not being able to communicate this to Lou directly, for never being able to speak out loud the words that are churning in his gut. He finds himself writing them down in his journal, out of order and underlined, but sometimes he can’t even manage that. Rather, he can only read love poetry and underline other people’s thoughts that speak to his own. He almost cried when he stumbled across the poetry of Rumi, when he read _there is a void in your soul, ready to be filled / You feel it, don’t you? / You feel the separation from the Beloved_ because he feels exposed, that a centuries old poet had found the words to describe his experience of the moment, the raw exhaustion that comes from being apart from each other even when they are allowed to be in the same room.

He messages Louis _goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes / because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation,_ and hopes that Rumi’s words speak loudly enough for both of them.

Harry thinks if he asked his mum about it, she would say that this was normal, that it was something he can fix. That he is still young, and learning to deal with this stuff is part of growing up. Harry is going to drive up this afternoon to stay with her and Robin for a few days, and is anticipating the inevitable conversation with dread. He’s been avoiding saying anything to her. He knows she knows something’s up, knows that tonight she will pat the cushion next to her on the couch and he will curl up into her shoulder and this will all come tumbling out, but until that point he’s choosing to believe he can handle this, that it’s fine, that he isn’t bothered by his growing sense of space between himself and Louis.

He is drifting around the kitchen, drinking coffee, when his phone lights up with Louis’ face, shaking quietly on the kitchen bench.

Harry answers, lifting his phone to his ear as he rests his hip against the counter.

‘Hi,’ he draws the _i_ out like a sigh.

“Hey,” Louis replies,“what are you doing?”

“Nothing really, just made myself a coffee.” He doesn’t have to be in the room with Louis to know he’s making a face at that. Louis has an irrational bias against coffee. Harry takes another sip to spite it, relishing the bitter taste on his tongue. “What about you? Must be past midnight in LA?”

“Yeah,” Louis says quietly. “I went out with the boys. It was... ok, just… got back and wanted to hear your voice.”

“Yeah?”

“Always want to hear your voice, H.”

“Sorry I haven’t been talking much lately, then.” Harry winces as he says it - he hadn’t meant to draw attention to it.

“No, no you’re alright. I get it. S’nice, is all, to hear you. Haven’t gone this long without talkin’ to you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

“You know it’s not your fault, Curly. Or if it is, it’s equally mine.”

Harry is starting to think Louis is more tipsy than he lets on. Louis drinks when he goes out, of course he does, but never as much as people are led to believe in the papers. Generally that only happens at home, and in places he feels safe. Or if Harry is around, though that's mostly the same thing. But this?

“Lou? What's going on over there?”

He hears Louis sigh. They know each other too well.

“Not much, just more bullshit to be honest. At least with El, people would leave me alone. Now I’m expected to leave with a girl on each arm. Don't know how you deal with it, to be honest.” Ah, so it’s been a night of PR. Louis is always morose after these, always a little more brittle, a little more needy.

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, catching his phone between his ear and shoulder, before uncrossing them, grabbing his coffee again, and moving across the room to stare out at the back garden. There’s no green like the that of an English garden in May, wet with dew from the morning. Staring at it grounds Harry. He concentrates on the cool tile beneath his feet, stretches his toes and pushes down, pressing into the earth like he’s learned to do in yoga. He takes a breath.

“You know I don't, not really.” It’s true. Harry hates his reputation for being a ladies’ man, the fact that he doesn’t have to do more than stand next to a woman to be linked to them, but he can acknowledge that one of the few good things to come out of it is that he never has to stage like Louis is forced to. It doesn’t make it any easier for either of them, though. He would swap places in a second, but knows that Louis would never let him, will do anything to keep him from having to go through this as well.

“Yeah. Fuck, I don’t want to put all this on you. I’m sorry H.”

“Don’t apologise. You know you can talk to me about this, always.” Harry smarts at the hypocrisy of his comment, that he is encouraging Louis to open up when he can’t manage to do so himself. He notices the way the morning light is dappling through the leaves, how the sunbeams refract through the glass. He thinks, _how beautiful_.

“I know— I know. It’s just, it's so much sometimes I can’t—”

Harry feels like he can’t breathe. The knowledge that they are both in the same place is a weight on his chest, even if it should be the opposite. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah Lou, I know.”

There's a pause. “Fuck I just— I know we haven’t talked, you know? And I feel so shit about it but everytime I go to say— anything— it’s like it's all just blank, yeah? Like I can’t even put it into words what’s going on in my head, let alone what’s going on with the bullshit over here, and it’s so shit and I’m so sorry—” and shit, Harry can’t do this, can’t let Louis think he’s alone in this, can’t let him think this is all they are right now, that this is all this will ever be.

“Hey, hey, baby, it’s ok, yeah? It’s ok. I get it. I’m the same, I’m sorry too. I know it’s hard to talk right now, but that’s ok. You and me, babe, we’ll be ok. It’ll get easier. It can only get easier.”

Harry wants to believe it so badly he can taste it. He shakes himself, moves through the house to the back door and into the garden, placing his coffee down on the outdoor table, sits down. Leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, he presses the hand that isn’t holding his phone to his forehead. He can see Louis’ cigarette butts in the ashtray, and feels a stab of longing that Louis isn’t sitting across from him, chain smoking and lazily tapping his cigarette against it.

“Haz, I— I think it’s going to be bad this time. I think it’s going to be worse than before, worse than how it got with El. I don’t want this, H. I really don’t want this at all and I feel like shit all the time and you’re not here and— fuck— please don’t be mad H, please don’t be mad— but this girl they sent me out with tonight, Briana, they’ve sent me out with her before, which is fine, but she said something weird— mentioned that we’d be seeing more of each other— said something about a baby. My stomach dropped, H, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough but there were paps and fuck, I think it’s going to be bad. I don’t think this is going to be the casual thing they agreed.”

Harry feels sick. Something’s wrong and Louis is drunk and he can’t do anything because he’s 3000 fucking miles away. Fuck all of this. He wants to scream in frustration but settles for biting his hand, really fucking hard, before taking a breath and pushing it aside. There are dark imprints of teeth on his skin.

“Lou— Lou, babe— listen. It’ll be ok, yeah? I promise. It’ll be alright. It doesn’t matter what they do. We knew they’d want to come up with something stupid. We’re prepared for this, for whatever comes. It doesn’t make me love you any less, and I love you a whole fucking lot. Nothing that happens can make me hate you, I promise. Whatever it is, we’re gonna deal with it together, yeah? Even if it’s fucking hard. I love you. I promise— I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Harry tries to put all of his belief, all of his conviction into his words. If there’s one thing in the world he knows it’s that he loves this boy more than anything, but the world has tried its fucking hardest to fuck that up. They’re tired, and holding on for dear life, and lately he’s been feeling it’s only a matter of time before one of them loses their grip entirely. He won’t let that happen.

“I love you too, H.” Louis takes a shaky breath that tells Harry he’s been crying. It breaks something inside Harry, makes him resolve to never go this long without reminding Louis just how much he is in this, how much it matters to him, how important it is that Louis knows that he is planning to stick with him through anything.

“Listen,” Harry says, “listen, I know we need to talk about this, and we will, but you need to get some sleep, ok? You need to sleep, darling. I’ll get in touch with Jeff, see if he can call around and find out some details. I’ll call you once I get to Mum’s tonight, and when we’ve got some more information and you’ve had some rest we’ll talk this out. But you need sleep, babe. Everything seems scarier when you’re tired, I promise.” Harry has made so many promises in the past minute, he hopes he can keep them. He runs his hand through his hair and tilts his head back, looking at the sky.

“Yeah, ok.” Louis sounds half asleep already, “‘m just so glad to hear your voice, H, fuck, I miss you so much.”

“I know baby, I know. I miss you so much too. It’s ok. I’ll see you as soon as I can.”

“Don’t hang up H.”

“I won’t.” He listens to Louis breathing softly. Harry doesn’t say anything more, but stands, keeping his phone to his ear as he goes back into the house to find his journal and a pen, and Louis’ spare pack of smokes. Louis makes a small sound, barely a sigh, and Harry thinks he is nearly asleep already but doesn’t hang up, holds on just to listen to Louis breathe.

He goes back outside, into the glorious morning that seems incongruous with his own and Louis’ distress. He stares at the ashtray, can smell the stale nicotine drifting from it. He draws a smoke from the pack and puts it in his mouth, keeping the phone to his ear as he cups his hands to light the cigarette with the lighter Louis keeps in the pack. He feels the acrid burn in his lungs, the bitter taste of the air in his throat, and thinks, _Louis_ , breathes in, _Louis_ , exhales, _Louis_. He rests the cigarette on the ashtray and lets it burn. If he turns away just slightly— keeps the ashtray in the corner of his eye— he can pretend that Louis is lounging in the sun next to him, his breath in his ear.

He opens his journal to a new page and writes, _if I could fly_.

* * *

_You've got my devotion / But man, I can hate you sometimes_

_Thurs 11 June 7.44am_

get to the airport ok? have fun in nyc love.

Thanks Lou. Just waiting to board now. Good luck with the Sony meeting this morning. xx

tbh will be glad to get it over with, you know? love you x

_Thurs 11 June 10.17am_

fucken cockroach paps are so much worse in london, i swear.

it’s done. signed, sealed and fucking delivered.

_Thurs 11 June, 5.44pm_

have fun tonight darling. don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

That doesn’t mean much coming from you, haha. xx

very funny H. you know what I mean

Yeah, I’ll be good. I promise.

Think it’s just gonna be a quiet dinner and drinks.

J says he’s arranged for a couple of fans to be in the area, so you’ll see pics.

Don’t think I’m up for a big one tbh.

see how you go, huh? you deserve to have some fun.

btw, last minute plans, i’ll be getting in late tomorrow night.

last minute meeting with julian to finalise a few things for the album before this tour leg starts.

Ok. My flight won’t get in til 8pm. Will that be much before you?

Will see you at the hotel. Xx

think i’ll be there around 10? dunno really, Oli’s on it though. sad i can’t be there waiting at the hotel for you.

needs must, i guess. miss your face.

Ok.

You saw it this morning, Lou.

I miss your face too. xx

_Fri 12 June, 12.13 am_

Looouuuuu did you know that whooping cranes mate forever? and they fall in love when theyre young too just like us.

youre my wohoping crane. Wanna whoop with you forever.

xxxxxxxxxx

_Fri 12 June, 4.26 am_

… not up for a big one huh?

I love you too you daft cunt. Xxx

_Fri 12 June, 5.06 am_

Ugh. Why is my flight so early. Stupid.

_Fri 12 June, 6.42 am_

Whose idea was it to go to New York for only one night??? Dying would be nicer.

Boarding now. See you later if I don't die from this hangover. xx

LMAOOOOOO. you brought this on yourself loser xxx

I hate you.

Xxxxxx

_Fri 12 June, 8.15 pm_

Just landed. Managed to sleep on the plane, thank god, so feeling a little better. I’ll see you at the hotel.

_Fri 12 June, 10.15pm_

leaving airport now. be there soon. lmk if you need me to pick you up anything on my way to the hotel. x

_Brussels, June, a little after 9pm_

When Harry finally swipes his card and unlocks the door to their suite after what feels like the longest 36 hours of his life, he doesn’t bother exploring. He’s used to hotel rooms by now, their luxury doesn’t strike him with awe the way they did at first. They're all the same anyway. He feels tired, small and aching, lost in the big room, and still feels fucking awful from drinking the night before.

He had been up at an ungodly hour this morning for the car ride out to JFK, staring out the window and feeling removed from himself. Like an echo. He’s never been so grateful for private flights, that he spent the minimum amount of time awake before settling back to sleep in his flight bed. Despite sleeping through most of the day, though, he feels the seedy, tired, restlessness of jet lag shivering under his skin. He has never been able to get used to the feeling, despite being jet lagged for a good part of the last three years.

Last night had been one of the easier nights of promo he’s done in a while, and he is grateful to Jeff for the work he’s doing to make it easier, but he still feels… lost. Separate from it all. Like he’s wearing noise cancelling headphones in a crowd of people trying to talk to him. It makes him uneasy, and the temptation of alcohol to drown it out had resulted in a much bigger night than was sensible when he had to be up before dawn for his flight.

He really doesn’t want to, but Harry forces himself to go through his hotel routine. He knows if he doesn’t he will feel even worse, and tomorrow is a show day, so he can’t afford to be off.

He toes off his boots, picks them up and takes them over to the wardrobe, lining them up neatly. He places his bag on the upholstered bench near his side of the bed, getting out his phone charger and plugging it in, pulling his phone out of his pocket and placing it by the bed. He doesn’t have much with him, most of his clothes travel with tour wardrobe, but what he does have he lays out in a way that he can easily reach without making a mess. Louis gives him shit for it, but it helps Harry feel better— more at home— and has the bonus of making it easier to pack quickly when it’s time to leave. He appreciates the little things.

He takes out his toiletries bag and goes into the bathroom, placing it on the counter, turning on the hot water as he passes the shower. He isn’t normally a night shower person, usually only if they’ve done a show, but he’s aching for one today. He pulls out his shampoo and conditioner from his bag, peels off his jeans and shirt, and practically dives under the water.

The water pressure is hard, the temperature scalding, and Harry feels the tension of the week release into the water as he goes through the ritual of washing his hair. He tries not to think about work, tries not to think about all the different directions he always feels he is being pulled in. He’s trying not to think about how much is changing, and how quickly. They have been moving non stop, trying to negotiate plans for him and Louis, trying to counter the expectations of the label. Jeff hasn’t been off the phone since May, not since Louis had called him and they had realised just what they might be dealing with.

A major chess move had been finalised yesterday, when Louis had re-signed individually with Sony to create his label imprint with Simon. When Jeff had suggested promo in New York with friends on the same day, Harry had been secretly glad. He’d not been able to bear the thought of Louis signing himself away while he hid at home, just out of reach. He’d relished being on the plane while it happened, in not being able to respond when Louis had texted, in not having to acknowledge the weight of contracts and decisions for their future. He feels like the most selfish fucking asshole in the world for running away, but keeps telling himself that it was easier for Louis, too, to not have him there. He doesn’t know if he’s lying to himself or not.

He washes out the shampoo and combs conditioner through his long strands. He loves this, loves the way he feels like he is taking care of himself even as he and Louis are forced to make decisions no one in their right mind should expect two kids in their early twenties to make, just to do the things they love. He remembers when this first started, how he had felt so lucky to not have to make life decisions like the other kids his age, to not have to decide what uni he might go to or what he might study, but he’s come to realise how simple those decisions were compared to what they have to face now. Those decisions could be changed, he thinks jealously, while theirs cannot, no matter how much they wish to.

He sighs and breathes out, once more letting it go as he rinses his hair for the final time, then turns off the tap and reaches for a towel. He wraps another around his head in a way that still tickles his sense of humour, makes him feel fancy in a way that he associates with his mother.

Harry pulls moisturiser out of his bag and begins to rub it into his skin— taking special care with the ink marks that speak his love to the world when words cannot— before making his way back out to the bedroom. He puts on briefs and an oversized jumper of Louis’, then pulls on socks because they feel more like home than strange hotel carpets, no matter how luxurious the hotels are.

It’s usually enough, this routine, but he still feels a restless itch under his skin, so he wanders over to the bar in their suite, choosing a heavy bottomed glass that is a comforting weight in his hands. He opens the fridge, and makes a pleased sound when he realises they have pre-chilled the whisky rocks. There are some perks to being rich and famous. He chooses whatever mini bottle of whisky the hotel has stocked— a Belgian brand he doesn’t recognise— pouring the whole amount into his glass. He grabs the glass between the two fingers and goes to find his journal, before tossing it down on the couch and sprawling himself next to it.

Time melts away from him as he lays there, occasionally taking a sip from his drink. He’s not tired, not really, has slept through most of the day, but he feels like all his energy has been drained as well.

Harry sighs, hand reaching out across the couch to thumb the leather of his journal, soft and discoloured from the habit. He runs his fingers across the edge of the paper, the deckled edges soothing to touch. He’s uneasy— fidgety and agitated under his skin— but he can’t bring himself to pick up a pen and write it down. The way he feels right now, he isn’t interested in trying to remember it, doesn’t want to give it the acknowledgement of pen on paper.

Laying his head back, Harry stares at the dimmed light fixture above him through half-closed eyes. He lifts the tumbler of whisky above his head, up to the light. It’s beautiful, how it refracts in the gold liquid, how it highlights the shades of amber. He thinks about how it tastes, the earthy peat overwhelming his mouth and leaving him unable to think about anything else for the brief moment it takes over his senses, the warm burn down the throat, the flat wince of the aftertaste.

He thinks he doesn’t like whisky, but maybe that's the point. Besides, if he liked it, he’d drink more of it, and Harry is wary of that habit.

He takes another sip, closing his eyes against the light and watching the colours of it bleeding through his eyelids.

The sound of the door handle turning has him opening his eyes again, though he doesn’t look around— just keeps staring up at the lights as the door clicks open. He listens as Louis quietly steps into the room, bag rustling as it brushes past the door frame, tinny sound coming from his headphones as he takes them out.

“Hey,” Harry breathes, still staring at the ceiling. He doesn't need to look to know that Louis is running his hand through his fringe, dropping his bag on a chair, fiddling with his phone to turn the music off.

“Hi babe,” Louis says, and Harry can hear the tired grin in his voice. “It’s late. Didn’t think you’d still be up.”

Harry hears footsteps and then Louis is there above him, hands straight into his hair, smiling down. He leans down and places a soft kiss on Harry’s forehead, lingering a little to take a deep breath in. Harry feels an impulse to cry, but swallows it.

“Couldn’t get settled,” he shrugs, which is putting it mildly, “plus I slept so much on the plane, my sleep cycle is out of whack. I thought I’d wait up for you. How was your flight?"

“Good, yeah. Mercifully short. Not bad from London to here, really. Not like coming from New York— Jeff come back with you?”

Louis is still standing behind the couch, has rested his hands against Harry's neck, softly stroking up behind his ears. Harry feels the agitation that was screaming in his head quieten somewhat.

“Yeah.”

Harry opens his eyes. Louis is smiling down at him quietly, softly tucking a hair behind Harry's ear, hands cupping his cheeks. His skin is a little cool, a balm on Harry's too warm face. Harry can see dark smudges under Lou’s eyes, fainter than they had been two months ago, but still breaking his heart that they're there at all. Louis’ been working at putting on weight and muscle, no longer gaunt from the stress of late last year, but he still carries the weight of it. He looks sad. Wary. Harry can’t bring himself to ask why. He thinks maybe that’s the reason for the look in the first place.

“How’d it go Thursday? I liked that red shirt on you. You looked so pretty, like a fancy pirate.” Louis has a google alert for both their names, so he would have seen the pictures when they were published this afternoon. Jeff had shown him earlier, as they were leaving the airport, though Harry hadn’t wanted to look. He couldn’t stand to see his own blank face staring back at him. He had been happy with how the shirt had looked, though. Dashing, was the word he wanted.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. Harry had found himself reaching for it unconsciously, had wanted the way it would brush against his skin in the mild heat. He’d pretended it was Louis touching him when the breeze shifted, that he wasn’t an ocean away. Louis likes red, and Harry had wanted to show he was thinking of him.

He thinks Louis knows this. Thinks he understands it, the way Harry understood when he saw the pictures of Louis wearing his Amsterdam jumper to the Sony offices yesterday morning. They speak to each other in symbols, in slogans on tees. Harry is worried that one day he will forget what they mean and then they won't speak at all.

Louis walks around the couch, coming to sit on the floor in the space between Harry’s legs. He turns his head, nuzzling into Harry’s knee for a moment before leaning his head back in Harry’s lap, closing his eyes, and sighing. Harry’s hand leaves his journal and rests in Louis’ hair instead, smoothing the rich brown strands between his fingers.

It’s quiet for a moment, the two of them readjusting to being in each other’s space.

Then, all of a sudden, Harry feels the fatigue, the stress of the week come rushing up his throat and rolling out across his tongue and he can’t help the words that come out.

“Five years, Lou—, ” his voice cracks over the words, like dried out clay.

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. They speak in sighs now too. Sighs and gentle touches and words on t-shirts.

The thing is, Harry gets that this is their best option. Knows that this record deal, no matter that it confines them for another five years, is how Louis gets his songs, how he gets some control, how it puts some of the pieces back on the board that had been stolen in November, and again in March, when Zayn had torn up the plan for all of them. Harry can even acknowledge that as far as deals with Sony go, it could always, always be worse, and that this time they are lucky to be older, and canny to the label’s traps. That they have people who are working for them this time, rather than their own interest.

He also knows this is how the business works, that behind creative dreams are locked doors and rooms of men in suits saying no. Syco was never going to let Louis go willingly. Wasn’t going to let any of them go willingly. Louis had insisted that this was a good solution; not the best, not by a long way, but a good one. His assurances don't stop the black hole that lives in Harry's centre siphoning away just a little more of his soul every time they sign. Even if it might be a different way to freedom.

Harry can’t think of what more they might talk about; not when they've gone over every word and full stop of every convoluted sentence with their lawyers, talking about what it means for their relationship, their careers, their future. Half of Harry's journal is pro & con lists from the past few months as they worked things out; they conveniently ignore the fact that, in the end, they didn't have much of a choice.

He asks anyway. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“To be honest, love, that’s the last thing I want to do right now,” Louis says, eyes still closed. He tucks his face further into the space between Harry’s leg and the couch.

Thank fuck. Harry lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Louis lifts his head and looks back to give him a fond look, quirking an eyebrow in understanding, then reaches up to grab the whisky from his hand. He pauses, shrugs before taking a long swig, then shudders and makes an exaggerated face.

“Ugh, that's so fucking awful, H, I don’t know why you drink that poison.” Harry huffs in laughter at that, at the way Louis knows how to diffuse and distract from the pressure Harry feels constantly these days, how he always does so at his own expense.

“I like it,” Harry protests lamely.

“No, you don't,'' Louis retorts with a smile, but then he lets it drop.

Harry can’t decide if he hates that or not. Can’t decide if he wants Louis to prod and poke and tease like he would have two years ago; needling and joking until Harry was annoyed into telling him what was really wrong, why he was torturing himself by drinking something that made him feel ill, and dusty, and used.

Two years ago it would have ended in them chasing each other through the suite, or the hotel corridors, shrieking in feigned offence, and laughing maniacally, before wrestling each other into bed, tickles and thrashing kisses melting into soft touches and shared secrets.

He doesn’t know if Louis stops himself because he knows why Harry's doing it, and won’t call him out; or if he doesn’t press because he doesn’t want to know anymore. None of the options make him feel any less small, or any less like he’s lost in a dark room playing Marco Polo with the love of his life.

“You didn’t have to have any,” Harry breathes. He sits up, leans forward and wraps his arms around Lou’s shoulders, burying his face in the crook of his neck. He inhales. Louis smells of tobacco and salt and sweat.

Harry feels like he is apologising to Louis for his thoughts, even though he's pretty sure Louis can't hear them.

He doesn’t know what to do with this anger. At Louis, at the world. He knows it’s irrational, knows there’s nothing Louis has done to cause it, but it simmers in his gut anyway. He figures at least in part it’s because he _can_ be angry at Lou, that he is so aware that being angry at anyone— everyone— else might not be safe, so he directs it at the one person who is.

He’s trying so hard not to let it bleed out around his edges but he thinks Louis knows anyway, that he’s doing a shit job of hiding it.

“I missed you,” he speaks into Louis’ skin. It’s soft, and warm, and he smells like home, the only home he’s had for years.

“I missed you too,” Louis replies. He lifts his hand across his chest to hold a fist to Harry’s calf, pressing his thumb into the muscle; and fuck, Harry is angry at the world but he loves this boy so much he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“C’mon, H, big day tomorrow,” Lou continues, “we should go to bed.”

“Mmmph,” Harry says into his hair. “You should have a shower first, come on.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright darlin’,” Louis pauses, takes a breath.

“I know you’ve had one already, but come and sit in the bathroom with me while I have mine?” he asks, standing up, moving stiffly, then turning around to hold out a hand to Harry. He sounds slightly unsure, like Harry might say no to being close to him.

But Louis is smiling down at him with his ‘Harry’ smile, the one that Harry had first seen in a bathroom when he was sixteen and had decided then and there he would do his best to keep forever. It’s the smile that dissolves his anger, and when it's directed at him Harry feels like he can breathe a little easier.

“Sure,” Harry smiles back, letting himself be pulled up and into the circle of Louis’ arms; resting his arms on his shoulders, whisky glass still in hand. Louis grins, taps his forehead against Harry’s chest, before turning around. He grabs Harry’s spare hand and ambles toward the bathroom, pulling Harry behind him.

Harry sits up on the counter, sipping his drink as he watches Louis pull off his clothes in a mad tangle, as he reaches out to turn on the tap and squeaking indignantly when water splashes on his jumper. The whisky is no longer making him feel dusty, and instead he relishes the warm tickle down his throat. Maybe he does like it after all.

“So tell me,” Louis sings out through the steam, “are you excited to sing about going down on me in front of 10,000 people?”

Harry chokes on a laugh. For tomorrow’s concert they have put No Control and 18 in the set list for the first time. Louis has been bouncing off the walls about it since the decision was made a week ago. It’s the perfect distraction from his thoughts, Louis, as always, pulling him out of his head when he needs it.

“Honey, I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life,” he retorts dryly. “I literally have not been able to stop thinking about how hot it makes me to share the intimate details of our sex life with our fans, many of whom are far too invested in it in the first place.”

Louis laughs at that, as he foams up his hair with shampoo, lathering soap all over his body. Ever the child at heart, he’s pushed his hair up into a mohawk, and he makes a wicked face at Harry through the glass.

“They do come up with some good shit though, have gotten loads of ideas from them,” he grins.

“ _Louis_ , no!” Harry squawks.

“Louis _yes_!” Louis retorts with a grin.

“You’re a terror, Lou.”

“Of course! But I’m _your_ terror.”

“Always.” Harry knows what Louis is doing, but it’s working, so he can’t find it in himself to give a fuck.

Instead he leans back and keeps sipping his drink, watching Louis’ lithe form under the water with soft eyes. The alcohol is finally making him cloudy and loose, but he knows it's equally likely that feeling comes from being around Louis.

“Not just singing about sex though,” Louis adds, “want to tell them how long I’ve loved you too.”

And fuck, Louis always does this so well, taking Harry’s breath away with sudden declarations of feeling. Harry is floored every time, though he should be used to it by now.

Harry’s words are caught in his throat, as fucking always, but the way Louis looks at him over his shoulder tells him that he sees how Harry feels from the look on his face.

Louis finishes up in the shower, steps out into the towel Harry is holding up ready for him. Harry rubs his shoulders through the fabric, before tugging him in for a kiss, and licking a drop of water off Louis’ nose with a laugh and a cheeky grin.

“C’mon H,” Louis huffs, pretending to be disgusted but not really, drying off quickly with the towel before dropping it on the floor and wandering naked back into the bedroom.

Harry grins and follows after him, though not before bending to pick the towel up and hang it on a hook.

By the time he gets to the bed, Louis has pulled on pants and has pulled back the covers, plugging in his phone charger before throwing himself onto the mattress, droplets of water from his hair flying everywhere.

Harry tosses Louis a smaller towel for his hair and then follows suit; crawling under the sheets next to him, tucking his body up into Louis on the bed. Louis tugs at Harry’s jumper, pulling it up over his head, then brings Harry back under his arms and into his chest, placing a kiss in his hair.

Harry wants to scream from the skin to skin closeness of it all, but after a moment the sensation— and Louis’ steady heartbeat— grounds him in the here and now and Harry’s racing, mindless thoughts fall away.

“Feel better now, love?” Louis asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles into his chest. God, he always knows, no matter how Harry tries to shield him from it. “How did you know?”

“Darlin’, I can always tell when the thoughts in this pretty head of yours are getting the better of you, hmm?” Louis strokes his hands through Harry’s hair.

They stay like this, silent for a little while.

“I’m sorry I’m so shit at saying what I mean,” Harry says quietly.

“I know you are, love,” Louis says, and Harry detects a fierceness in his voice, “but hey, listen to me now, ok? It’s alright that sometimes you can’t talk about things. It's a hard thing to do, but I know you try. I love you for that.

But something you should know is that even though I know you’ll always try, always say sorry when you can— which I appreciate, I do— you never _need_ to. I will already have forgiven you.

I will _always_ forgive you, H.”

And Harry didn’t know that this is what he has been searching for, this absolution of his worst instincts and impulses, his fears that he is _too much_ for Louis. This understanding of his deepest, gnawing fear that Louis will one day not want to deal with him, with the way he is petty and morose, selfish and arrogant, with the way he is selfishly consumed in his own feeling. In this moment, he feels utterly _known_ , down to his bones. More than that, though, he feels so very deeply _loved_.

Suddenly he is crying; big, fat tears rolling are down his face onto Louis’ chest, burning hot and slippery where skin meets skin. He takes deep, shuddering breaths, as Louis hums nonsense words into his hair and rocks him through the sobs, brushing his fingers through the hair at Harry’s temple.

Eventually the tears subside, and they shift together so they are laying wrapped around each other, Harry clinging to Louis’ side like a limpet.

“I love you so fucking much, Lou,” he says, gently brushing his lips over Louis’ chest.

“I love you too, my curly boy,” says Louis, before gently rolling them over on their sides, so Harry is the little spoon and Louis is holding him back against his chest.

“Go to sleep, Harry,” he whispers,”it’ll be better tomorrow.”

* * *

_I don't want to fight you / And I don't wanna sleep in the dirt_

_We'll get the drinks in / So I'll get to thinking of her_

_Seattle, July, past midnight._

The bar stool is killing his back. He can feel the sullen ache building in the base of his spine as he hunches over the bar. He knows he has a perfectly good bed waiting for him upstairs, but he after he had gotten out of the shower he had felt the tell-tale prickling of restlessness spread under his skin, as it sometimes does after a show, and had instead thrown on a soft tee and joggers and wandered down to the conveniently-open-at-this-god-awful-hour hotel bar with his journal in hand. The bartender had gracefully paid him no attention beyond serving him the double Laphroaig he had asked for, before going back to drying glasses at the other end.

He’s been sat in the corner for close to an hour now, nursing the same drink and drawing mindless circles in his journal. The churning in his gut that has become second nature, something like hunger but not, has returned. It makes him feel hollow, and he knows he should go back upstairs and sleep— that he’s going to feel the lack of it later— but everytime he contemplates going back to the empty hotel room his restlessness roars back to life.

His anxiety has been manageable for the past month or so, mostly settled after the night in their Brussels hotel room, but had re-awoken two days ago; as the mother of all stupid-goddamn-stunts their ravenous team had dreamed up in their den began. Fictional torture spurred on by a girl with a baby brother on the way and parents willing to leap at any opportunity they could.

They’ve known it’s been coming since May— have been undermining and fighting it where possible— but it’s going ahead anyway. Jeff’s assurances that he’s trying to mitigate what he can— that he’s trying to make sure there’s a way out of this that makes sense and doesn’t leave Louis looking like a bigger villain than Harry did after the Taylor fiasco— are limited. Jeff is limited, too, by the fact that technically he only represents Harry, and while functionally that means he’s working for both of them; on paper, and in the Syco boardroom, he has less leverage. A week ago, the story that Louis was going to be a father appeared in the paper, and two days later Louis had “confirmed” the rumour online. Harry had found some perverse pleasure in the way more articles about Harry himself being pregnant were trending, but he doesn’t really find it funny, and is instead deeply nervous about where this is going.

Harry knows deep down that they're gunning for them with this one. They won’t be turned away so easily. He knows that with the end of their cash cow in sight, Syco knows they’re losing control; everyone supporting them has warned him about how dangerous this liminal space can be. All of it builds the anxiety in his chest and once again he finds himself retreating, becoming more insular.

It’s been made worse by the concert this evening, where, at every break Louis had spoken to the crowd, there had been an eerie silence, as what felt like an entire stadium held their breath, waiting for him to acknowledge it. To make it worse, they have replaced Strong with Spaces in the set for the US leg so far, against the wishes of everyone in the band. They like the song, but the timing could not have been worse, and none of them wanted to lose Strong. Harry has noticed more than one distressed fan in the crowd when they sing it. It makes him sick to think about. He hopes the sick fucks at Syco are enjoying torturing the fans who have made them rich.

There’s movement in the corner of his eye, and then a hand he knows better than his own reaches out and cups the side of his neck briefly, before rubbing down his shoulder to circle his wrist.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” Louis grins softly. He looks tired, the exhaustion set into his skin. He’d stayed back to deal with the team, prepping for the show in Vancouver on Friday, album planning with Julian, and making sure Lottie was set up with Louise and Lux.

“You’re back early,” Harry says. “Didn’t think I’d see you till th’morning. Half thought you’d stay out with Cal & Oli.”

Louis shrugs. “Din’t feel like it tonight, if I’m really being honest. I was sure you’d be in bed though.“

Harry gives him a rueful grin. “Couldn't sleep. Thought I’d have a nightcap.” He’s aware that Louis recognises this pattern by now, is starting to recognise it himself, but he enjoys the back and forth.

Louis eyes his glass with distaste, playing along. “You and your bloody whisky,” he says, but the look he gives Harry is fond, as he turns to order for himself.

“Just a pint for me thanks, mate.” He waits for the barkeep to bring him his beer, giving his room number and tipping with a fifty, before moving a stool close to Harry, sitting up next to him so their knees are brushing.

“So, Curly, what's really got you down here all on your own, drinking whisky in the bar like an old man?”

Harry lifts a shoulder, looks away from Louis’ piercing gaze. Just because they have a rhythm now, doesn’t make it any easier to talk. “Just felt restless Lou, you know how it is after a show.” He feels a sharp stab of shame in his gut that he can’t just _tell_ Louis, before reminding himself that Louis already _knows_ , is offering him a way to talk about it when he’s ready. He’s just disappointed in himself that he’s not.

“You could have stayed and had a drink with me and the boys in the dressing room?”

“Yeah, I know, it just— didn't hit me til I got out of the shower. I had planned to be asleep by now,” he says honestly, “m’knackered, actually.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we Curly?” The way Louis rolls the epithet through his mouth makes Harry feel soft inside. Louis reaches up and twists one of Harry’s locks around his fingers.

Harry quirks a small smile at him, rolling his eyes fondly, then reaches up to grab the hand in his hair. He squeezes Louis’ wrist gently before dropping his hand back on the bar and reaching for his drink with slow, heavy movements.

Louis seems to take his lack of response as a cue to let the conversation drop, and instead turns back to his pint, taking a couple of big sips with a contented sigh.

Even though he knows the silence between them is a different kind, softer, Harry can’t help but think of the show tonight, of the way he feels like he is holding his breath right there with the fans.

Louis seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he says “show was fucking weird, wasn’t it?”

“Hmmm. Felt like the whole world was hanging on your words, every time you opened your mouth.”

“About fuckin’ time, innit? Been screaming at them to listen to us for long enough,” he jokes, but it falls a little flat.

“You know what I mean, Lou.”

Louis hums in acquiescence. He nudges Harry’s wrist with his own, his rope tattoo lining up with Harry’s anchor. Harry knows that if they were upstairs they would be seeking comfort in each other already, that the only reason they're even saying any of this to each other is because they are downstairs and can’t risk more than gentle touches.

“Worth the while, though,” Louis says softly, repeating a phrase he had tweeted earlier in the week. It’s become somewhat of a motto for them, a wish that they make for themselves everytime they say it.

“Here’s to freedom,” Harry says, and touches his glass to Louis’ pint. “Cheers.”

They look at each other silently. Harry huffs a laugh, and then suddenly he’s laughing. Just big gasps of laughter rolling out of him like a storm. Louis grins tiredly, but then he's chuckling too, laughing with a smile that crinkles his eyes, looking fondly over at Harry as if he had hung the stars. Harry lives for that look. He knows he ought to be worried about what people will think of the two maniacs bent over double in the corner of the bar, but he finds he doesn't have the energy to care. People up this late probably don’t have much in them to care, anyway.

Louis reaches out and grabs his hand, turns it over, thumb rubbing the cross.

“C’mon,” he says, “drink up, let's go upstairs. You’ll hurt your back if you stay sat on that stool much longer.” He downs the remainder of his beer, places the glass gently on the bar, and nods his thanks at the barman.

Harry rolls the last sip of his whisky around his mouth, relishing the numb tingle that mutes the sharp taste of campfire and dirt, before swallowing.

He gestures to Louis to lead the way, following slowly behind, admiring the view fondly. Fuck, does he ever love this man. Louis looks over his shoulder and grins coyly before waiting. Harry loves that he waits for him.

In the elevator, Harry turns into Louis’ chest, resting his forehead in the crook of his neck; his fingers grasping the soft, barely there love handles at Louis’ natural waist.

“Lou,” he asks under his breath, his voice deep and crackling, “can you fuck me tonight?”

He grins to himself at Louis’ sharp intake of breath. They switch pretty easily, the two of them, but Harry wants badly to feel Louis inside him tonight. Harry knows Louis would do anything he wants anyway, but he is so, so turned on by the way Harry asks him so bluntly.

“Of course, darling.” Suddenly, the fact that they are still in the lift, that they can’t dare risk any touch they can’t jokingly explain away, somehow makes everything so much hotter. The tension between them ratchets up a thousand notches.

When the doors finally open, they move with economy towards their room, Louis following Harry’s lead. As soon as the door is shut behind them, Louis pushes him back against it; his mouth on his neck, hands pulling tightly in his hair, thigh pushing between his legs. Harry is so hard already, fuck.

He’s not doing much beyond kneading Louis’ arse with his hands, his head thrown back to expose more real estate for Louis to mouth. He can feel the hard length of Louis’ dick rubbing against his leg, and pushes up against him. The moan that Louis lets out goes straight to his groin, and fuck, they better move quickly or he’s not gonna last. Normally he wouldn’t care, has fucked Louis enough in enough different configurations that he’s happy just to get off in any way they can, but goddammit, he’s been promised a fucking and _god_ , he wants it so badly.

Louis seems to intuit this, because he pulls Harry from the door over to the back of the couch, turning him around and, with one swift move, tugs his joggers down and drops to his knees, mouth on Harry’s ass. Harry’s not proud of the ungainly squawk that comes out of his throat at this, but to be quite honest, he can’t really see straight so it’s low on his priority list.

Louis pauses for a breath, resting his forehead against Harry’s cheeks and blowing cool air across his hole.

“Ugh, you’re fucking evil,” Harry moans. He’s lost most of his ability to keep himself upright, is flopped over the couch sucking in big, gasping lungfuls of air.

Louis chuckles coyly, before grabbing Harry’s arse cheeks in both hands and spreading them apart, pushing his face into the crack and licking a broad stroke over Harry’s hole. Harry is clawing his hands through his own hair, the sharp sensations doing little to distract him from the all encompassing sensations of Louis’ tongue rimming him. He’s propped up on his elbows, staring into the weave of the couch fabric and not much else, but there are rainbows at the corner of his eyes and he’s seeing stars when he squeezes his eyes closed.

They know each other so well— have spent so much time exploring each other’s bodies in hotel suites and dressing rooms, have spent years taking advantage of their teenage endurance and energy to get off multiple times in a row— that Louis knows exactly where to press with his tongue to make Harry shout with pleasure. Louis has never been shy in weaponizing this knowledge either, has always taken excessive satisfaction in the myriad ways he can make Harry sing.

To Harry’s extreme frustration Louis stops, suddenly, stepping back and standing up, slapping Harry lightly in the balls with affection. Harry could die, he’s so empty, can feel himself clenching and unclenching in the absence of Louis’ tongue.

“Lube, babe?” Louis asks. His voice is rough and full of gravel, the only outward sign that he is as far gone as Harry.

“In my bag, usual pocket,” Harry _just_ manages to choke out, knowing that it will be faster than Louis trying to find wherever his own tube is in the chaotic shitpile that is his suitcase.

Fucking _mercifully_ , Louis is quick in grabbing it, and Harry hears the click of the cap as he walks over, and after a second that stretches into hours his tongue is back in Harry’s arsehole, and, _yes_ , one, then two of his fingers have joined in quick succession. Harry is thankful they’ve fucked recently enough that he can handle the speed with little more than a sharp pinch that makes his toes curl. He’s never been averse to a little pain.

Louis is scissoring his fingers, rubbing Harry’s prostate in a relentless rhythm that barely lets him breathe from the sensation, before briefly pulling them out. He adds more lube and a third finger, and curls them up, just so, in a move that nearly has Harry coming untouched.

“Lou, _please_ —” Harry begs,“fuck me already. Please. You _promised—_ ”

Louis pulls his fingers out, pressing a kiss to the inside cheek of Harry’s arse before biting down gently in a way that makes Harry gasp. He runs his hands up and down Harry’s thighs, creating friction.

“You’re such a fucking tease Lou, please— come _on—”_

“Yeah, ok, H, let’s get you fucked,” Louis says, and _God_ he sounds so wrecked. “How do you want it, should we get you over to the bed?”

“Please. Wanna see you.”

Louis helps Harry step out of his pants, socks and shoes, then uses soft touches to guide Harry over toward the bed. At the same time, he pulls his own jumper and shirt over his head and tosses them behind him. Harry takes off his jumper and crawls up on the bed, turning around to look back at Louis.

Holy shit.

Louis is looking at him with the fiercest, darkest _want_ that Harry feels right through his body to the soles of his feet.

Louis stalks towards him, toe-ing off his kicks, undoing his jeans and - _Jesus -_ his cock is hard and wet and red, springing out of his pants as he pushes them down. He gets more lube and rubs it all over himself in the most obscene way, climbing up over Harry on the bed, meeting Harry’s gaze the whole time.

Harry feels this huge sense of awe that Louis wants _him_ , is his own to love.

They breathe for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes, before Louis suddenly cracks a wicked grin and tickles - _tickles_ \- Harry out of nowhere.

Harry shrieks, laughing loudly. Louis giggles, nuzzling his face in the space under Harry’s ear and smothering his neck with chaste kisses. Their laughter subsides, and Harry reaches up and kisses Louis on the mouth, lightly at first but deepening it quickly. He pushes his hands into the soft silk of Louis’ hair and tugs him up and closer while they kiss.

“C’mon, babe, m’ready, get _in_ me, please,” he murmurs between kisses, and Louis obliges. Harry feels the head of his dick at the ring of his hole, and then, christ, he’s pushing in, slowly but steadily, and Harry feels full. He always forgets how complete this makes him feel.

Sex between them, no matter how it happens, has always been their most instinctive way of communicating with one another. It has never failed them in a way that talking or writing sometimes does. In the quiet privacy of their bed, every touch is loaded with meaning, every kiss another way in which they share their love with each other.

Here, the rest of the world has no meaning, no say in what they can and can’t do or mean. Here, Harry forgets to be guarded about the way he looks at Louis, doesn’t second guess every movement, feels no compunction to hide the silent conversation they have in each other’s eyes. They just _are_ , in this space, and it’s the closest thing to freedom they’ve found.

Louis is moving rhythmically now, thrusting in and out, one arm holding himself over Harry and the other hand caressing his cheek, lips brushing his mouth as he smiles down at him. His eyes close occasionally in bliss.

Impatient, Harry wraps his legs up around Louis’ waist to pull him closer. At this angle his dick is hitting Harry’s prostate with every stroke, and a steady wave of pleasure builds at the base of his groin.

He’s mumbling, “m’close, m’close— please, darling, touch me, want your hand on my cock— please,” and Louis has never been able to deny Harry what he wants, so soon enough Harry feels the tight pressure of his hand around his dick. Louis is fucking him more wildly, with less control now, and Harry knows they’re both nearly there.

“Fuck I love you— love you so fucking much,” Harry cries as he spills into Louis’ hand. Louis is coming shortly after, before he collapses down onto Harry’s chest with a contented sigh. They are sweaty, and hot, and sticky, and Harry feels blissed out in the afterglow.

Louis rolls off him, and they both lay on their backs, panting loudly, staring at the ceiling. Harry looks over at Louis and grins, reaching down and catching his hand in his own. The tension of the night, the week, melts away again, and he relishes being here in the moment with his boy.

It never goes away, this feeling.

Later, after Louis has had a quick shower, and Harry wipes himself down with a damp cloth, they crawl back between the crisp sheets of the bed and lie on their sides, facing each other.

Harry reaches out to caress Louis’ face, making small twists in the hair falling across his cheek. Louis smiles softly, drifting off to sleep. Harry reflects back on his restlessness from earlier in the night, and realises that the key to solving it is lying here across from him. He smiles softly at this clarity, as he follows Louis into sleep.

* * *

_Test of my patience / There's things that we'll never know_

_You sunshine, you temptress / My hand's at risk, I fold_

_Buffalo, September_

Things keep going wrong.

It’s frustrating, because in many ways things are the best they’ve ever been— the concerts are fantastic, they sound better than ever, the album that they’re recording sounds more like them than anything before ever has. The fans are creating incredible, mind blowing projects that take their breath away, making each crowd a sea of rainbows.

All of this, however, does little to counteract the way their management and label keep undermining them at every turn, determined to squeeze every last drop of profit out of them before it’s all over next year. Add this to the fact that all four of them are running on empty, and have been for more than two years, means that things keep fucking up.

It’s been worse, ever since New York.

It had taken Harry days to get over the gut punch of the interview on Good Morning America. It’s not like they weren’t prepared for it all, but the sense of defeat carried over into every waking moment for at least a week afterward. He’s only been able to leave it behind on stage, he feels more free dancing wildly amidst the lights and the cheers than he does anywhere else, so he’s thrown himself into each performance.

Slowly, as the tour leg has gone on, the anger and defeat of that morning in New York has faded, little by little, with each rainbow he sees in the crowd, with each sign— and there are so many more signs these days— that show him that their fans see them, beyond the bullshit facade that has been erected around them.

Louis, however, has thrown himself headfirst into more and more intricate set ups for their rainbow bear tour mascots. They all have contributed ideas since Josh started it as a joke last tour, but since Louis took over in July— with Harry’s amused encouragement and assistance— and the fans noticed a change, the project has grown ever more complicated.

It seems to channel and amplify Louis’ anger, like it had been an echo under years and layers of exhaustion. Now that he is spending any downtime researching others who have been closeted, who have exerienced what they’re being put through, or worse, he seems to be building a wave of rage at the world— at what people from their community have been put through— and Harry is beginning to wonder if anyone will survive the day he releases it on the world unfiltered.

They have been getting annoyed at one another, sniping. Louis can be mean when he’s annoyed, and fuck if it presses Harry’s buttons. Harry gets petty and irritated.

Niall’s fingernails are in danger of being bitten down to their beds, and Liam has been drinking too much, though that has been the case more often than not these days. Harry and Louis both watch him out of the corners of their eyes, making sure someone is with him at all times, despite the fact that drunk Liam is somehow even more morose than sober Liam.

Harry can feel them all falling apart, and even though he knows it’s the home stretch— that they’re counting down to some final goddamn rest— he’s worried. He knows Louis is too, that they’ve both taken on the responsibility for pulling them all through this, but it doesn’t stop them being pissed at each other.

The thing is, Harry isn't even sure why, and why now? His mum thinks it’s exhaustion, and had gently reminded Harry that a few good night’s sleep doesn't erase the deep fatigue that touring brings.

“It’s normal, darling,” Anne had reassured him over the phone earlier in the week. “I know everything feels like it's playing out in some grand theatre, and that every little thing jumps out as seeming more important than it is, but I’m sure once you get some rest —real rest, not just a good night’s sleep— things will get better.”

“Mum, it’s not like we don’t know this,” Harry had retorted. “There’s a reason we’re planning the break at the end of the tour, that we’re stopping. It's just, we’re both so angry, all the time, and it hurts, and I just want it to go away. We used to be able to forget about it we were together, but these days it gets _worse_ , and I don’t know how to—”

“Oh sweetheart,” Anne sighs. Harry can feel the heavy weight of her love from across the ocean. He misses home, so much. He wishes he could be back curled up with her on the couch, cup of tea in hand, talking about boys like they used to when he was sixteen. He misses the way her hand would rest on his forehead, the way she would stroke it over his eyes and he would feel grounded and safe and rested.

“Have you spoken to Lou about this, H? It’s hard, but maybe part of it is that you’re so trapped in your own head that it’s all amplified. Jay says you’re both as bad as each other.”

Harry knows what she means, knows that she’s probably right, but it’s not what he needs to hear right now. He can’t bear the responsibility of knowing there is a way to fix it if he was only a little bit braver.

They had hung up after that, and Harry had gone to talk to Louis, but had ended up curled in his lap instead, Louis’ hand stroking through Harry’s hair as he looked up lawsuits and some old guy named Ken Dodd.

Harry decides he needs to do something too.

He organises his plan on the down low, making sure the suits from management don’t get the word and nix it. He could probably rely on a fan to have one, but he doesn’t want to risk it. This is too important.

When he pulls the rainbow flag up from the side of the stage to dance with it, the screams are deafening. The cheers for this moment are worth every shit thing that’s happened to get him to this point. He feels loved, so accepted, and it gives him a high he can’t explain.

He understands why they do this at pride parades, the elation people find in expressing a crucial part of yourself without the need to put it into words. It feels like singing a song that’s been trapped inside him for years. His body is thrumming from the power of it, and it continues through the rest of the night.

Later, Louis can’t stop touching him, can’t stop looking at him with shining eyes. Harry feels like he is bursting with pride. He knows that this doesn’t fix anything, not really, but being able to show the world, just for one moment, who he is, it might just be enough to get them through this.

“I’m so proud of you,” says Louis. Harry feels like he’s won a battle, like he’s been given a glimpse of a possible future.

* * *

_Crisp trepidation / I'll try to shake this soon_

_Spreading you open / Is the only way of knowing you_

_Belfast, October, 9.25 pm_

A fluorescent light is buzzing overhead, the blue light casting a sickly pall over the bathroom. To Harry’s eyes, the room is bleached of colour, but he isn’t sure if that’s because of the panic pressing up throughout his chest.

He draws a shaky breath, exhales.

Cancelled.

Cancelled less than an hour before they were supposed to go on, no less. He can’t believe it’s gone through.

He feels like a piece of shit. Can’t stop thinking about how they could have done it differently, if they’d just known, just noticed, just been a little more alert to the machinations going on behind the scenes. Harry knows it was the right call with the choices they had left, but he wishes he could fix it so the choices were less fucking awful.

He shifts slightly, where he is kneeling on the floor. He’s been here for at least twenty minutes, one leg either side of the toilet, head over the bowl. His knees are starting to ache with it, but he can’t bring himself to move in his panic.

The second it had been confirmed, he’d turned around and walked out of the room without looking at anyone. He’d come straight to the bathroom off their dressing room at the stadium, barely managing to lock the door behind him before he was lurching across to the toilet and hurling up everything in his gut.

The past two days have been a nightmare. It had started yesterday morning when management informed Harry and Louis that they will be continuing with the pregnancy narrative beyond the end of the band.

All hell had broken loose.

Harry and Louis had put their foot down, done playing along in the hope that it would be over soon. They are now refusing to participate in any more of the stunts, insisting that if they happen it will be without their cooperation.

The tense standoff had continued over the previous night. It had somehow only gotten worse throughout the day, with neither side refusing to budge. With Niall and Liam’s support, Harry and Louis had finally threatened that they would not perform in tonight’s concert if they were not able to renegotiate the details of the stunt. Management had agreed, but had spent the afternoon being generally uncooperative, and more than once they had paused for breaks after an all out shouting match.

In the chaos, none of them had noticed how much Liam had been drinking to cope with the stress. They knew his habits, and he, Louis or Niall generally tried to keep an eye on him when he did so, but he had slipped their notice earlier, disappeared to his dressing room. When Harry, Louis and Niall had come to talk to him about how they might move forward, to decide whether they needed to start warming up for the evening, they had found him slumped on the couch, barely conscious.

That had decided it really. Even after the panic over calling in the tour doctor to check his vitals, after they knew he would probably be ok, it became clear they would have to delay the show if they had even a hope of going on, despite Liam’s protests that he was fine. With the hour getting late, with none of them ready to sing - all of them hoarse from two days of yelling and discussion, they had made the call. Between everything, it was too much, and none of them were prepared to go on as usual.

Harry retches over the bowl again, sobbing tearlessly.

There’s nothing left in his stomach, hadn’t been much to begin with because he hadn’t been able to eat from the stress, so it’s nothing but spit and muscle cramps. His teeth feel musty and acidic, his jaw aches, and he hasn’t done a good enough job holding his hair out of the way in his race to the toilet so some of the ends are flecked with spittle.

He pushes himself up, away from the toilet, walks stiffly over to the sink where he intends to splash his mouth out with water, but freezes instead when he sees his reflection in the mirror.

He almost doesn’t recognise it.

His hair is a matted nest, his eyes bloodshot. He looks old, older than he should. The naked light reveals layers of fatigue and stress. His tongue feels swollen in his mouth, his lips cracked.

He feels himself unravelling.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Haz?” Louis’ voice comes through, small and quiet. “You ok in there?”

Harry can’t lie to him, say he’s fine. Not today.

He doesn’t think he can talk, either.

He moves slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and shuffles over to the door, unclicking the latch before leaning against the wall, sliding down it to sit with his back against the wall.

After a moment, the door opens just a crack and Louis slips inside. He closes it softly behind him before snapping the lock back into place. He squats down in front of Harry, reaching out to push his hair from his face. His hands are cool and gentle on Harry’s clammy skin, his eyes kind, even though Harry looks and feels a fright.

“Were you throwing up, babe?” Louis asks, his brusque tone an echo of Jay’s. He’s switched to nurse mode, evidently.

Harry nods minutely, his head aching at the movement. His throat feels raw.

“Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Can you talk?

No?

Ok. Let’s get you some water, hmm?”

He looks around the room quickly, assessing what’s available, before getting up to grab a water bottle and a couple of towels. He turns on the tap and soaks one end of the towel in cold water. Harry can see in the way Louis moves years of caring for younger sisters in just this manner.

Once he has what he needs, Louis comes back to sit down in front of Harry.

He reaches up with the damp cloth, wiping the sweat and spit from Harry’s face between holding a clean corner against his forehead.

“Haven't had one like this in a long time have we, H?”

Harry shakes his head, no. Not since the early days of stage fright, where Louis had coaxed him through it with kisses and shy giggles.

“No, I didn’t think so. Can you hold up your fingers? One for anxious, two for nauseous, three for both?

Three?

Ok, darling. I’m gonna look after you, I promise.”

Harry believes him— Louis will always want to look after him— but he can see the tears in the corner of Louis’ eyes that he knows mirror his own. Harry has watched for the past year as Louis has borne the consequences of this promise, knows what it has cost them. Tonight is a case in point.

Harry thinks he and Louis are tired animals trapped in a corner. Scared and angry and frustrated, but the trappers coming at them have forgotten that they have something to fight for. Even now, he can see the resolve harden behind Louis’ eyes. He’s probably got something planned already.

Louis uncaps the water bottle and holds it out for him to take. Harry takes three big gulps before passing it back.

“Thanks Lou,” he manages to croak.

“You’re welcome, love. Do you think you can move? It’s ok if you can’t.”

Harry’s legs feel like lead at the thought, and he shakes his head.

“Stay here with me?” he whispers.

Louis shifts so that he too is sitting with his back against the wall, pressed up into Harry’s side. He takes Harry’s hand in his own, locks their fingers together so their tattoos match. With his other hand he makes long, grounding strokes over the rose on his forearm.

Harry feels his breath start to deepen, even out, in rhythm with Louis. He can feel the nausea subside as Louis shifts closer and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder.

They stay there, quiet in each other’s presence. Harry wonders why nobody is searching for them, but figures Louis probably took care of everything before coming to find him, so they wouldn’t be interrupted until he was ready. At that thought, Harry turns to plant a kiss in his hair.

Louis sighs.

“I’m not gonna let them win, Haz.”

Harry believes him when he promises.

* * *

_We’ll be a fine line/ We’ll be alright_

_London, early November, 8pm_

Harry is washing plates in the sink, Peter Gabriel playing loudly in the background. When Harry had declared his intentions to do so, after they’d finished dinner, Louis had given him a look of horror. He’d then loudly declared Harry was nuts when they had two perfectly functional dishwashers available, and promptly disappeared into the music room. Harry had chuckled, and gone back to scraping leftovers into the bin.

He likes the routine of washing up. It takes him back to being ten, to his old house in Holmes Chapel, helping his mum clean the kitchen as they listened to her favourite albums. _So_ had been such an album, and for him listening to it will always create such a strong sense of home.

Five nights ago, they had played their final show as One Direction, and it still feels a little surreal.

They have a little less than two weeks of relative rest before the final push of album promo to finish out the year, and both of them feel a little bereft. The first night back had been little more than falling into bed after a day spent breaking up the tour and travelling back to London— both of them confiding to the other that they planned to sleep for a week— and they had cleared their calendar, before falling into bed.

The following day had been glorious, a long, restorative sleep-in wrapped around each other. They had indulged in breakfast in bed, a Breaking Bad marathon, and two tubs of ice cream while talking about plans for their break. That second night of uninterrupted sleep had been bliss. It’s not like they hadn’t had two nights of sleep in a row before, but it feels different this time; without the burden of having their next year already planned for them.

The following few days had continued in like manner, but this morning, Harry had awoken early, bright with the need to move. He’d gone running across the heath for an hour, the crisp autumn morning making his breath appear like smoke. At the top of a hill he stops, catching his breath for a moment, and watches all the people going about their day. Their world hasn’t drastically changed like his own, he thinks; or maybe it has for some, and he is just an extra in the background of their scene.

He feels so young, all of a sudden. Is this what it’s like, to not know what to do next? He’s always felt a little separate from his friends his own age, and has never quite been able to relate to their stresses about what they might do with their lives, not when his own was controlled to the minute.

He thinks of the moment Gemma had cornered him after the final Sheffield show, before she and Anne had left; how she had looked at him quietly for a good minute before telling him, in a tone that meant she was deadly serious, “I know you’re going to want to dive into something straight away, H. It’ll be tempting, to do whatever is offered to you, just because you can, but you need to not do that. You need to stop, and breathe. No decisions for at least a month, ok?”

“What _are_ you on about, Gem?” Both of them were on the drunk side of tipsy. At the time, he couldn’t think further ahead than the hangover he was going to have in the morning.

“Listen, little brother. I love you more than anything, but you suck when it comes to saying no. At least, not to things that you don’t actively hate the thought of.

And I get it, I do, because you haven’t really had to for 5 years. You’ve been singly focused on the band and Louis, and you haven’t had to think outside that. But now everyone will want you to, and I need you to know that you don’t have to do any of it. Not one bit. Promise me you won’t make any plans or decisions for at least a month, yeah? And even then, nothing long term. For your own good. Don’t even think about it.”

She had pinned him with such a ferocious glare that Harry had found himself agreeing on the spot, not quite knowing what she meant.

A dog barked, running across his path while frantically chasing another, and had snapped him from the memory. He’d put it aside and continued his run home, but he hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his head since.

Louis had picked up when Harry had gotten back from his run that needed space to get his thoughts in order, and had left him to it for the day, wandered off god knows where in the house pursuing his own project. Harry has stopped asking. It always gets him in more mischief than it's worth.

Harry has spent the rest of the day pottering, completing errands around the house that, honestly, someone else could do more effectively, but that had kept him occupied while he contemplated Gemma’s meaning, her words playing on a continuous loop in the back of his mind.

When he is in his wardrobe making sure all of his shoes and shirts are stored safely and in order, he wonders if she was right about his inability to say no, reflecting back on every time he has in the past five years. There aren’t many moments he can think of, and all of them can be linked to his fight to be with Louis.

When he is cleaning out the spice rack in the pantry, making a list of what needs to be replaced, he considers his own impulse to always be doing something. He remembers how, earlier in the year, he had nearly killed himself flying back and forth to New York just to stay occupied for a day. He thinks about the restlessness that he has lived under his skin since before he can remember— thinks about how much worse it has been this year and all the ways he has tried to get it to leave him alone— and thinks Gem might have been right.

Harry had cooked a roast for dinner, relishing the slow, methodical nature of cooking, the way that he has the time to make elaborate meals with way too much food for just the two of them. They’ll be eating the leftovers for weeks. Washing the dishes now, he thinks he managed to use every pan in the kitchen.

The opening bars of In Your Eyes play in the background, and Harry goes to turn it up so that it’s blasting before he goes back to scrubbing the pan. He loves this song.

He starts to sing.

“I get so lost, sometimes. Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart,” he hums, and there is not a better song to speak to where he is at this moment; thinking over the past week, about the way this year has cut him adrift from who he thought he was. He is deep in thought— dancing as he drains the sink and wipes it down— and so only vaguely registers Louis calling his name from the study.

“When I want to run away, I drive off in my car. But whichever way I go, I come back to the place you are,” Harry’s falsetto is a little weak— it has never been his strength— but he belts it out anyway.

There’s movement on the edge of his vision, and he turns to find Louis leaning against the doorframe and watching him, a fierce look of affection on his face. His arms are crossed but his demeanor is relaxed, so Harry doesn’t worry about stopping.

Harry grins, and decides to have some fun instead. It’s his favourite part, anyway.

_All my instincts, they return_

_And the grand facade, so soon will burn_

_Without a noise, without my pride_

_I reach out from the inside_

At this, he thrusts out his arms in front of him, spirit fingers splayed, and starts shimmying to where Louis is standing. Louis throws his head back in a gesture of joy. Harry knows that Louis, for the most part, doesn’t particularly like Peter Gabriel, but he’s always been a sucker for how cheesy this track is, and for how much Harry loves it.

Harry spins as he moves, pointing at Louis as the chorus starts, turning the song to a serenade. It fits how he feels about Louis perfectly.

“In your eyes, the light, the heat, in your eyes, I am complete,” he sings as he reaches Louis and grabs his hand. He pulls him back towards the centre of the kitchen, into his chest. Louis doesn’t say anything, but puts his hands on Harry’s waist before starting to move with him to the rhythm. Harry’s proud of his breath control, of the way he can duck in for a chaste kiss between phrases.

When the chorus ends Harry cups Louis’ face in his hands, looks him in the eyes.

“I love you,” he says, simply and honestly, kissing Louis on the nose before going back to dancing. Louis’ eyes are wet, and Harry swipes a tear from the corner of his eyes with his thumb.

“Love—” He sings along to the second verse more softly, slow dancing with Louis around the room,“ —I don't like to see so much pain. So much wasted, and this moment keeps slipping away. I get so tired of working so hard for our survival. I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive,” and christ, Harry feels his chest burst with feeling.

He’s been struggling all year to find the words to tell Louis what he means to him, beyond simple declarations of love and affection, beyond symbols etched on skin, beyond Bears in elaborate costumes. Through all of it, Harry has been trying to articulate that every moment with Louis has sustained him, kept him going.

Gabriel manages to do it for him in a song that, though thirty five years old, has words written just for them. Harry imbues them with as much feeling as he can manage.

Watching Louis, Harry can see that he hears it too, sees the slight wonder on his face as he listens to Harry sing. He grins, and throws himself into dancing, twirling under Harry’s arm before laughing. He puts his arms up on Harry’s shoulders, reaching up to kiss him, says, “I love you too, my curly one.”

He stands on Harry’s feet to pull himself closer, and Harry hugs his arms around Louis’ waist. They sway around the kitchen to the music, off beat, foreheads touching. Harry knows Louis’ grin is mirrored on his own face. It’s in this moment that the clarity he has been seeking throughout the day comes to him.

It’s a big and scary thing, to be young. You feel the pressure of all the decisions you haven’t made yet, reaching out from the future. You might not yet know the words to say to ask for help, might not yet have learned the phrases to speak your deepest feeling to the ones who might want to hear it. Everything feels bigger, because you have not done it before, and you don’t know if you’ll want to do it again. If you aren’t careful, you might be crushed by the weight of possibility. That growing up is another phrase for getting surer of yourself in the face of doubt from the world, of the heavy expectations of others.

He realises most people are alone to figure this out. They do this at the same time as looking for someone who will build them up, rather than tear them apart, and that this makes everything that much more terrifying.

Harry looks at Louis and knows that he doesn’t have to do that part. He and Louis are this for each other already. Harry realises that even though they might not yet be good at talking yet, that with practice, they will be. They have time, now, to learn to speak to one another. He thinks this is what Gemma meant when she made him promise not to rush to fill it with other things.

Here in the kitchen, dancing with the boy that he loves, Harry finds that he is the luckiest person in the world.

Harry looks into Louis’ eyes, and sees their future as a road stretching out before them.

* * *

_We’ll be alright_

_We’ll be alright_

_We’ll be alright_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are deeply appreciated!  
>   
> Come find me over on [Tumblr](https://bearmustard.tumblr.com/) and say hi! There is now a [Tumblr post](https://bearmustard.tumblr.com/post/630905098904764416/at-risk-i-fold-by-clare328bearmustard-e) for this fic, I would love it if you could reblog!  
>   
>   
> Some notes/links regarding events discussed in the story:
> 
> [This video](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/video/tvshowbiz/video-1198971/Louis-Tomlinson-night-Briana-Jungwirth-May.html) is of the night in May that inspired the first scene. If I could Fly was written around that time, though it was probably earlier.
> 
> [Harry's Red Shirt](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-3121165/Harry-Styles-parties-pals-New-York-One-Direction-deny-rumours-split.html) is still one of my favourite things he's ever worn. He really did fly out to New York the day after their OTRA Cardiff show, go out for one night with Jeff, then rush back to Brussels for the show where they first sang [18](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v10VY0taQSk) & [No Control](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2oAwZxY5Ys).  
> The same day, Louis was papped outside Sony (ankles out!) in his [Amsterdam Jumper](https://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/louis-tomlinson-looks-glum-heads-5867379), finalising the deal to create his imprint with Simon/Syco, 78productions. Everything else in this scene re: record deals is conjecture for the sake of the story, but the "5 years" comes from the convenient fact that Louis announced his split with Syco 28 days after the 5 year anniversary of this signing.  
>   
> Louis tweeted [Worth The While](https://twitter.com/louis_tomlinson/status/620162579231580160?lang=en) a few days before the Seattle concert, itself a few days after babygate was first seeded in the tabloids. (I refuse to link to that article). The story was confirmed by 1DHQ just before the Seattle show.  
> [Fan](https://tellmethisisnotlove.tumblr.com/post/124219402814/define-awkward) [reports](https://tellmethisisnotlove.tumblr.com/post/124231141759/otra-seattle) of the show from the time talk about the eerie quiet whenever Louis spoke, and how both Harry and Louis seemed a little off their game, though [other reports](https://far-awaylouis.tumblr.com/post/124236978442/with-all-of-the-negativity-and-stress-on-my-dash) say it was mostly fan projection and they seemed okay. This was a weird concert. The bears were replaced with a horse (show pony), the cameras kept putting a [Larry Is Real](https://tellmethisisnotlove.tumblr.com/post/124273944499/stylshrry-truuuuuu) sign on the big screens, and afterwards Harry and Louis stood next to each other for a [meet and greet](https://louis-william.tumblr.com/post/124251247371/x), and got them to sign an anchor and rope video.  
> "Harry Styles Pregnancy" also really did trend, and became an utterly hilarious news story that both amused and confused us all. This leg of the tour was wild, y'all.
> 
> Harry had danced briefly with a rainbow Canadian flag at OTRA Vancouver, but in Buffalo [he went wild with the pride flag](), and didn't stop for pretty much the rest of the tour. 
> 
> The first OTRA Belfast concert was [cancelled 40 minutes before they were due on stage](). Officially, Liam took the fall for it. He has since opened up about a [drinking problem](https://www.theguardian.com/music/2019/dec/02/liam-payne-on-life-after-one-direction-it-was-touch-and-go-i-was-slowly-losing-the-plot) at the time, though hasn't said whether this was a contributing factor for Belfast, so I have taken big liberties with that to fill in some story gaps. That being said, there's [definitely more to it ](https://tellmethisisnotlove.tumblr.com/post/624987703321182208/hi-i-just-wanna-ask-why-was-cancelling-belfast-a) than that. There're also strong indications that [Louis had a part in leaking Home](https://tellmethisisnotlove.tumblr.com/post/156299192989/after-he-couldnt-draw-the-hedgehog-the-girl) in the following hours.  
>   
> This fic is obviously based on Fine Line, but I also heavily leant on [Aeroplane Bathroom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBUDAmDf-DY) by Gordi to create the atmosphere in the Belfast scene, and [In Your Eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kU8OJAOMbPg) by Peter Gabriel for the kitchen scene.  
> 


End file.
